Bloody Hands

Pounding in my head, my heartbeat rap rap rapping, silent at the start, louder until the crescendo rattles with unmissable sigh. It’s a wonder my body stays upright, but then, there I am…
tearing into my own frame, gnashing my teeth as my hands rip into my chest, trying my hardest to clamp onto my heart and stifle its incessant agony. Finally, it’s sitting in my palm; I’m watching it still beat somehow. I always wondering how it still beats.
How much can one person take? 

Smaller than I thought it would be, my fingers entrap it without any resistance. Logic tells me that enough pressure on something will eventually make it malleable.
Looking closer, I can see all of the gashes that I claimed possessed immovable stitches. Coming loose at the seams, thick drops of my own blood; a deep, tantalizing maroon. 
Crimson chasing down my arms, warm as honey and just as sticky. I fix to lap it up before realizing it’s been long contaminated. How has the incessant impurity I find myself grappling with not worked itself out yet? 
Will I always be this ill?

Unknown